Storm in the Alps. The sky is changed !—and such a change! Oh night,
And storm, and darkness, ye are wondrous strong,
Yet lovely in your strength, as is the light
Of a dark eye in woman! Far along,
From peak to peak, the rattling crags among
Leaps the live thunder! Not from one lone cloud,
But every mountain now hath found a tongue,
And Jura answers, through her misty shroud,
Back to the joyous Alps, who call to her aloud!
And this is in the night-Most glorious night! Thou wert not sent for slumber! let me be A sharer in thy fierce and far delight,A portion of the tempest and of thee! How the lit lake shines, a phosphoric sea, And the big rain comes dancing to the earth! And now again 'tis black,-and now, the glee Of the loud hill shakes with its mountain-mirth, As if they did rejoice o'er a young earthquake's birth BYRON
XII.-Parting of Douglas and Marmion at
Tantallon Castle.
Nor far advanced was morning day,
When Marmion did his troop array
To Surrey's camp to ride:
He had safe-conduct for his band,
Beneath the royal seal and hand,
And Douglas gave a guide:
The ancient Earl, with stately grace,
Would Clara on her palfrey place,
And whispered, in an under tone,
"Let the hawk stoop, his prey is flown."
The train from out the castle drew;
But Marmion stopp'd to bid adieu ;-
"Though something I might plain," he said,
"Of cold respect to stranger guest,
Sent hither by your king's behest, While in Tantallon's towers I staid; Part we in friendship from your land, And, noble Earl, receive my hand." But Douglas round him drew his cloak, Folded his arms, and thus he spoke :
"My manors, halls, and towers, shall still
Be open, at my sovereign's will,
To each one whom he lists, howe'er
Unmeet to be the owner's peer.
My castles are my king's alone,
From turret to foundation-stone-
The hand of Douglas is his own;
And never shall in friendly grasp
The hand of such as Marmion clasp."
Burned Marmion's swarthy cheek like fire,
And shook his very frame for ire,
And-" This to me !" he said,
"An 'twere not for thy hoary beard,
Such hand as Marmion's had not spared
To cleave the Douglas' head!
And, first, I tell thee, haughty Peer,
He, who does England's message here,
Although the meanest in her state,
May well, proud Angus, be thy mate:
And, Douglas, more I tell thee here,
Even in thy pitch of pride,
Here in thy hold, thy vassals near
(Nay, never look upon your lord,
And lay your hands upon your sword,)
I tell thee, thou'rt defied;
And if thou said'st, I am not peer
To any lord in Scotland here,
Lowland or Highland, far or near,
Lord Angus, thou hast lied!"
On the Earl's cheek the flush of rage
O'ercame the ashen hue of age:
Fierce he broke forth :-"And dar'st thou ther To beard the lion in his den,
The Douglas in his hall 2
And hop'st thou hence unscathed to go ?—
No, by Saint Bryde of Bothwell, no!
Up drawbridge, grooms-what, Warder, ho!
Let the portcullis fall.”
Lord Marmion turned,-well was his need,
And dashed the rowels in his steed,
Like arrow through the archway sprung,
The ponderous gate behind him rung;
To pass there was such scanty room,
The bars, descending, razed his plume.
The steed along the drawbridge flies,
Just as it trembled on the rise;
Not lighter does the swallow skim
Along the smooth lake's level brim:
And when Lord Marmion reached his ban(.,
He halts, and turns with clenched hand,
And shout of loud defiance pours,
And shook his gauntlet at the towers.
"Horse! horse!" the Douglas cried, "and chase!"
But soon he reined his fury's pace:
A royal messenger he came,
Though most unworthy of the name
A letter forged! Saint Jude to speed!
Did ever knight so foul a deed!
At first in heart it liked me ill,
When the King praised his clerkly skill.
Thanks to Saint Botham, son of mine,
Save Gawain, ne'er could pen a line:
So swore I, and I swear it still,
Let my boy-bishop fret his fill.-
Saint Mary mend my fiery mood!
Old age ne'er cools the Douglas' blood,
I thought to slay him where he stood.
'Tis pity of him, too," he cried;
"Bold can he speak, and fairly ride
I warrant him a warrior tried.".
With this his mandate he recalls,
And slowly seeks his castle halls.
XIII.-Departed Grandeur.
Alhambra." PALACE of beauty! where the Moorish lord,
King of the bow, the bridle, and the sword,
Sat like a genie in the diamond's blaze,
Oh! to have seen thee in the ancient days!"
"Where are thy pomps, Alhambra, earthly sun,
That had no rival, and no second?—gone!
Thy glory down the arch of time has roll'd
Like the great day-star to the ocean dim;
The billows of the ages o'er thee swim,
Gloomy and fathomiess. Thy tale is told!
Where is thy horn of battle, that but blown,
Brought every chief of Afric from his throne,-
Brought every spear of Afric from the wall,-
Brought every charger barbed from the stall,-
Till all the tribes sat mounted on the shore,
Waiting the waving of thy torch, to pour
The living deluge on the field of Spain?
Queen of earth's loveliness, there was a stain
Upon thy brow-the stain of guilt and gore;
Thy cause was bright, bold, treacherous, and 'tis o'er:
The spear
and diadem are from thee gone,
Silence is now sole monarch on thy throne!”
Venice.-I STOOD in Venice, on the Bridge of Sighs;
A palace and a prison on each hand:
I saw from out the wave her structures rise
As from the stroke of the enchanter's wand:
A thousand years their cloudy wings expand
Around me, and a dying glory smiles
O'er the far times, when many a subject land
Look'd to the winged lion's marble piles,
Where Venice sate in state, throned on her hundred isles
She looks a sea Cybele, fresh from ocean,
Rising with her tiara of proud towers
At airy distance, with majestic motion,
A ruler of the waters and their powers;
And such she was ;-her daughters had their dowers
From spoils of nations, and the exhaustless East
Pour'd in her lap all gems in sparkling showers.
In purple was she robed, and of her feast
Monarchs partook, and deemed their dignity increased.
In Venice Tasso's echoes are no more,
And silent rows the songless gondolier;
Her palaces are crumbling to the shore,
And music meets not always now the ear:
Those days are gone-but Beauty still is here.
States fall, arts fade-but Nature doth not die,
Nor yet forget how Venice once was dear,
The pleasant place of all festivity,
The revel of the earth, the masque of Italy!
Before St Mark still glow his steeds of brass, Their gilded collars glittering in the sun; But is not Doria's menace come to pass? Are they not bridled ?-Venice, lost and won, Her thirteen hundred years of freedom done, Sinks, like a sea-weed, into whence she rose! Better be whelm'd beneath the waves, and shun, Even in destruction's depth, her foreign foes,From whom submission wrings an infamous repose. In youth she was all glory,-a new Tyre,— Her very by-word sprung from victory, The "Planter of the Lion," which through fire And blood she bore o'er subject earth and sea; Though making many slaves, herself still free, And Europe's bulwark 'gainst the Ottomite: Witness Troy's rival, Candia! Vouch it, ye Immortal waves that saw Lepanto's fight! For ye are names no time nor tyranny can blight. Statues of glass-all shiver'd-the long file Of her dead Doges are declined to dust; But where they dwelt, the vast and sumptuous pile Bespeaks the pageant of their splendid trust; Their sceptre broken, and their sword in rust, Have yielded to the stranger: empty halls, Thin streets, and foreign aspects, such as must Too oft remind her who and what enthrals,
Have flung a desolate cloud o'er Venice' lovely walls.
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